The coffee cup and the suitcase
by feralandfree
Summary: Molly knows Sherlock will never love her, she is trying to come to grips with it and move on. So, when the chance of leaving Barts arises, she begins to pack her suitcase...Rated T for reference to adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

_Oh, come on Molly, breathe. _

_Deep breaths. _

_It's only make-up. You can do this._

Molly used to be a fairly normal, relatively happy person. She didn't have a boyfriend but she had a job she liked, some friends and an adequate life.

Now applying make-up and getting dressed in the morning turned her into a nervous wreck. She was pretty sure he was going to turn up at Bart's and every time he came she felt like she was standing naked in the city square. Every touch of mascara was read like a psychological evaluation, just as the lack of it was.

It was too much, simply too much.

Steering herself and gathering her courage, she decided to go for her usual nude tones, blush, a little bit of mascara and...lip-gloss? Lipstick?...he would read too much in lipstick. Gloss. Definitely Gloss... Gloss? Gloss.

After applying the lipstick, Molly smiled one more time to make sure there was none on her teeth, oh _God_ that time was mortifying, she tied up her hair in that style he once said suited her and went to work.

* * *

"Hey Molly, we've got a fresh one!" Tom grinned at her as she walked in. " We're sending the stiff down, the freak wants to have a look at him."

"Don't call him that." Molly answered automatically. "It's rude."

"Ah because he's so polite, isn't he, Molly?" Tom mused sardonically. "I really don't know what you see in him."

"Stiff." Molly said, curtly.

"Huh?"

"Don't call him _stiff_, it's rude." And with that she went to the morgue without even looking at Tom.

Of course she had meant to stand up for Sherlock, but she was fast becoming the laughing stock of the hospital. If she had any hope of retaining some dignity she had to learn to step back. It's not like Sherlock cared what Tom thought of him.

_But I care._

Molly gripped her notice board tightly to her chest. People were so horrible with Sherlock. The fact that he was horrible with them didn't count, he couldn't help it! He was horrible with everyone. So cruel, always...

"Molly." the interruption of her reverie caused her to jump and almost drop her vial.

"Oh good morning, Doctor Paten!" She stood up from her chair.

"Molly, a new hospital is opening in Manchester. They need a new Director of Pathology and asked me if I knew anyone." He looked at her meaningfully.

"Oh...Oh!" She exclaimed. "Really? Me? Seriously?"

"It would be great leap in your career: Head of Pathology at such a young age. I told them you would be perfect for the job."

She felt her stomach clench slightly. "Thank you Doctor Paten, but I'm learning so much here..."

"...Working with Sherlock Holmes, I know. Now that you can say you've worked with him even more doors will open for you, it's not necessary to stay here any longer, people never last this much with Holmes anyway!" Doctor Paten walked closed and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Molly you're a gifted pathologist. You could have a brilliant career if you tried! I'm baffled you're still working here after so long, you surely must realise you're wasting away in this place. At least think about it."

The pathologist smiled meekly. "Thank you for the opportunity, Doctor Paten. I...I will think about it."

Satisfied he'd gotten that much out of her, the kindly old doctor left the morgue.

Molly stayed very still for a while, pondering her options.

She could leave, run away from the man that tormented her, and get a great career... Or she could stay, stuck in the same job with a guy who barely knew she was alive.

"Mmh, tough choice." She muttered to herself. The truth was, change scared her; all she needed was that extra push to give her the strength to leave, to move on.

The corpse was delivered. He had been found dumped in a parking lot, naked, with no ID of any kind. She began inspecting him when a familiar voice echoed through the corridors.

"Of course she wasn't the Duchess! Did you see her handbag?"

"Yes, it was a Louis Vuitton."

"Oh my God how did you not notice? The monogram! Did you even look at the monogram?"

"The what?"

Sherlock sighed "The monogram on the top right corner was covered by the handle, which by the was had 6 stitches instead of 5. That handbag is an imitation!"

The door flew open as John and Sherlock walked in. Sherlock kept talking animatedly and walking around the room as he failed to contain his energy. "And it was a present, obviously..."

John sighed in resignation. "How do you know?"

"The rubber." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, looking at his friend expectantly.

All he got was John's blank stare. Sherlock moaned in frustration and continued to explain.

"The handles have traces of rubber on them, particularly where the hands hold them. Louis Vuitton handbags have leather handles that grow darker over time, especially in the areas where they are most handled. Some women use rubber on those spots to make the leather stay lighter longer and thus have the bag look newer than it is. No woman would waste time rubbing a fake handbag, so it is clearly a present from someone she believed _could_ afford a proper bag; she simply didn't know the person was too mean, or didn't think her worth enough, to buy her an original.

She is the duke's mistress, and an unimportant one at that!" Sherlock turned to Molly.

"Cause of death?"

"Head trauma." She muttered wistfully as she looked into his steely eyes. Barely noticing her, he looked at the corpse.

"_Good morning, Molly how are you today?_

_Fine, thank you, Sherlock._ _And how are you?_

_I must say you look very nice today, that lipstick suits you..."_ Molly shook her head.

_Yeah, right._

She continued speaking as Sherlock walked around the body, his mind racing as usual.

"He didn't have any clothes or items on him, so he's a John Doe at the moment. He was found at a parking lot, so Lestrade is..."

"Call Lestrade and tell him to look at any place where beach volley is played."

"Pardon?"

"Physique and bruising is consistent with the sport, his toenails and fingernails have sand in them, the kind you find in beach volley courts. His hair is wet though and doesn't have sand, which means he had finished playing and was in the shower. He didn't finish the shower because if he had he wouldn't still have the sand between his toes and in other parts of the body. This man was naked when he was murdered, no more than 5 hours ago."

Sherlock ran to the door with his phone in his hands "Find any beach volley games within the last 6 hours, now!" He looked at Molly before walking out. "That woman from the golf court. I want to see her again. I'll be back in an hour."

John smiled at her and gave a little shrug and a wave before running after his friend.

Molly was left standing by the beach volley John Doe.

"Bye, Sherlock." She whispered to the empty room.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't come back an hour later.

He had a completely warped sense of time, and Molly had learned to not expect him when he said he would be there, and to be ready for when he actually was. Unperturbed, she continued working. She eventually straightened up from the microscope and stretched languidly. Despite everything, she loved her job and often forgot to keep an eye on the clock, which now warned her it was well past eleven pm. The cup of coffee she had made for herself had been neglected and was now cold. Tentatively she took a sip, grimaced, and went to the sink to empty it and wash the mug.

It was a little brown thing she always kept in her workspace, a small cheap mug she'd bought at the supermarket when she first went to live alone to study at Uni. It is strange how something comes into our life and we barely notice it. We simply use it when we need it, neglect it when we don't; we take it for granted because it's always been there, and, since we didn't care about it when it first appeared, we don't pay attention: we don't notice how important it is becoming as each day passes... But over time it turns into a reservoir of memories, a part of our little world. Often we don't know how much we care about it untill it's gone.

She fondly washed the brown mug and left it to dry by the sink, where she usually kept it.

"Right, time to go home, then." She muttered to herself. She had been talking far too often to herself, lately.

Now that Molly had stopped working, fatigue finally took over. Looking forward to going home she put on her coat, grabbed her bag and walked to the door. She was just about to turn the doorknob when the door flew open as Sherlock and John came running in.

"The golf woman!" Sherlock turned to look at Molly "Where's the golf woman? I need to see her again."

"I..." Molly blinked "I'm just going home..."

"No you're not." Sherlock dismissed the idea. "You're going to help me by getting that Golf woman and showing me her toes."

Before she knew it, she was back in the morgue, pulling out the desired cadaver. Without so much as a thank you, Sherlock started examining the body again and was soon in his 'thought palace'.

He could be so pompous.

John came to stand by Molly. "Hi." He said. "I'm sorry we're keeping you here so late..."

"It's all right." She smiled meekly. "It's not like I have someone waiting for me. I have more company here with the dead!" Molly laughed and he chuckled politely.

"What is the case?" She asked John. Sherlock and Lestrade often came to her for help in their cases, but oh so often they wouldn't explain to her anything that was going on. Lestrade usually told her what happened, once everything was done, but Sherlock didn't see the point in discussing a case once it was solved. As Molly was very curious, she resorted to John for the information.

"There is the chance that two murders were committed by the same killer." John explained calmly.

"They were!" Sherlock confirmed, without taking his eyes off the corpse.

"This golf-playing lady here." John continued unfased by his friend's interruption "And the John Doe from before. Sherlock thinks they're connected."

"They _are_!" Sherlock cried out in obvious frustration. "Sand!"

John looked at his roommate with ill-concealed exasperation. "Sand?"

"Sand!" Sherlock repeated. "Golf-playing woman and volley ball man both had sand on their feet!"

"Well there is a sand pit on a golf course, and you need sand for beach volley. How is this relevant?"

Sherlock took a pinch of sand from the dead woman's feet and brought it close to John's face: "Just look at it! It's the very _same_ _sand_!"

The next couple of hours were spent inspecting the grains of sand under a microscope to try and identify the source.

Molly tried to focus as she could feel her eyes burning.

"I need coffee." She muttered to herself. "Would anyone like some?" She asked politely.

"No thanks, Molly." John smiled tiredly at her. Sherlock didn't reply.

Molly got her little brown mug and went to make a fresh batch of coffee. As she waited for the brown miracle brew to be ready, she looked around. The hospital was deadly quiet, nobody was on that floor and she could hear each of her footsteps echoing down the corridors. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and stopped to look; her heart slowly sank when she saw herself as she looked to the world: tired, gaunt, always working way overtime because she was lonely but too shy to put herself out there...

The coffee was ready.

Gently holding the mug in her hands, savouring its comforting warmth, she returned to the chilly room where the two men continued to work.

"Oh, coffee!" Sherlock said cheerfully, taking the mug from her hands. "Thank you."

"That's Molly's coffee!" John protested slightly, feeling sorry for her. Oh how she hated people feeling sorry for her.

"No it's not, it's in my mug!" Sherlock defended himself placidly as he drank her coffee.

"That's _my_ mug..." Molly tried.

"Oh. Well it's kind of you to give it to me! That's very sweet." He took a sip and grimaced "That's actually too sweet. Two sugars, not three, Molly, thank you." he gave her the mug back. Stunned and speechless, she went back to make some more coffee.

A few minutes later Sherlock was looking into his favourite microscope and drinking coffee from her mug while she used a plastic one... It wasn't the first time this had happened.

Molly was searching on her computer, then she stopped for a moment. She turned to look at Sherlock. She wasn't afraid of doing that, he never noticed, or at most he didn't seem to care if she did. His icy eyes were fixed on that grain of sand with such intensity, she wondered if he had ever looked at anyone with even a hint of that passion.

_He will never look at me like that._ The realisation came not to her heart or mind, it rather hit her in the stomach, as if reality had just stabbed her with the truth. How humiliating to envy some sand. Unwillingly a small sigh escaped her lips.

Sherlock took his eyes away from the microscope to look at her. "What is it?" He asked. His expression unreadable, as it often was.

"N..nothing. I was falling asleep." She muttered lamely.

"Well try not to be too noisy, it's putting me off." He chastised her before resuming his work.

Molly nodded apologetically. Her eyes went to John for support, but he seemed to have dosed off a while ago, his face resting on the keyboard as he snored slightly.

Taking a deep breath, Molly opened her account and typed an email.

_Dear Professor Paten,_

_thank you so much for your recommendation!_

_I would love to meet with the new hospital's HR as soon as possible._

_Please let me know when we can arrange an interview._

_Best regards,_

_Molly Hooper._

* * *

Author's note:

I'm off for the holidays so I don't know how soon I'll be able to add new chapters, but I will try my best!

Reviews would be greatly appreciated, I would love to hear what you think.

Thanks for reading,

Feralandfree


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note:

I hope you're enjoying the fic so far!

Molly's mother, and hence the dialogue, is ispired by SammyKatz, Molly's mother.

Reviews, are very welcome as I would love to hear what you think!

Feralandfree

.

.

.

Molly opened the bedroom door, dropped her bag on the floor and let herself fall onto the bed, face-down.

After what felt like just a few minutes, her alarm rang.

Molly groaned, her arm flailing around as her hand searched for the clock. She muttered something incoherently into the pillow and, eventually, sat up. "Why do I even bother coming home?" She mumbled morosely to herself. Removing yesterday's clothes, she went to have a shower.

Last night they confirmed that the sand was of the same origin and Sherlock was able to identify the golf court where the woman would go playing (it had something to do with her nail polish and the earth he found under her shoes but she was too tired to listen or care) and he finally allowed John and herself to go home for some rest. Now her head hurt and she really just wanted to stay in bed.

The phone rang, as expected. Her mother always called on Wednesday mornings for a quick chat while Molly had breakfast. After a while the conversation drifted in familiar, unpleasant territory: Sherlock.

One evening, one very bad evening, Molly had gotten drunk after Sherlock had said her boyfriend was gay. She got so upset she called her mum and told her all about it. Before that incident her mother had only known how much Molly respected Sherlock, but after that night there was no way her daughter could pretend there wasn't anything more than simple admiration.

"You need to get out of there, Molly, run! He'll only break your heart again." Her mother repeated. "You're a bright, intelligent and pretty girl, you could do so much better than pining for him. If he can't see what you're worth then he doesn't deserve you!"

"Thanks, mum." Molly answered, smiling. She liked her mother's little pep-talks, but she usually did not want to discuss leaving the hospital. This time though she didn't mind… Why was that?

_The email._

Suddenly she remembered that small detail. She had accepted to meet the HR for the new hospital in Manchester!

"About that, " she tried to sound casual "I actually have some news. It might be nothing, but…"

* * *

Molly stepped into st Barts in a good mood. She was very proud of herself for writing the email and taking that step. Leaving this hospital was a scary thought, but today she decided to be optimistic.

"Morning, Molly." Tom called to her. "Were you working late last night, too? When I left your lights were still on."

""Good morning, Tom." She answered placidly "Yes, we were working on a case."

"You don't get paid overtime, I can't believe you let him use you like this..."

"Sometimes actually caring about your work and going the extra mile can have unforeseen benefits." She replied with nonchalance as she walked to the morgue.

"Molly!" A voice called. She turned to see a beaming Doctor Paten walking to her.

"Good morning, Doctor." She smiled.

"Doctor Paten, good morning!" Tom gushed "You look in great form today! Did you have a chance to read the file I…"

"Molly I was so happy to get that email." The doctor cried "A friend of mine, Doctor Amélie Hoffe, will be working at the new Hospital and I was wondering if you would like to join us. Tom can fill in for you, can't you Tom? Of course you can. "

"Thank you, Doctor." Molly walked away with Doctor Paten, her head held high as they left behind them a stunned, speechless Tom.

* * *

Tom walked confidently into the morgue. Another Jane Doe had been delivered… If that freak were to come, as Lestrade anticipated, Tom wouldn't allow himself to be pushed around: he wouldn't work extra hours or do anything more than what was in his job description. Tom would demand respect. He would stand up to Sherlock, oh yes he would.

Suddenly he heard voices coming from the corridor.

"…Daughter's. The duke obviously doesn't have a cat"

"Obviously…"

"But his daughter does. The scratches on his arm are very inflamed. He is clearly allergic to cats but tolerated one for a relatively prolonged period of time, most likely because he cared about the person who brought the feline. The daughter has just left after staying the weekend, it is most likely she's the cat owner. " Sherlock and John walked purposefully into the room.

"Well at least now we have confirmation that the golf-playing woman was the duchess. Lestrade still thinks it was the Mistress who killed her…It seems likely…" John mused.

"No of course it wasn't the mistress." Sherlock dismissed the thought scornfully.

"Why not? In a fit of passion, maybe…"

"Well, first of all she is too stupid. Secondly, she really believed the Duke was going to leave his wife and marry her. Thirdly, the duchess was hit on the head by a big, heavy blunt object. Molly, please pull out the new John Doe. The mistress has clearly had breast augmentation surgery very recently so there is no way she could lift anything heavy…You're not Molly." Sherlock did a small double take and looked at mild surprise and irritation.

"Where's Molly? Get Molly."

Tom cleared his throat "I'm Tom…"

"Is something wrong with Molly?"

"No, but…"

"Then go get her!" Sherlock looked at John in obvious frustration "They just hire anyone in this hospital, don't they?" Turning back to the thin, single because unfaithful, recently-joined-a-gym-but-hasn't-gone-yet, videogame-player, smoker, he commanded once more "Get Molly."

"She is in a meeting, I'm sorry!" Tom fumbled. "I'm filling in for her."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he stared at Tom for a while. Molly was never at meetings.

* * *

"George always talks very highly of you, Doctor Hooper." Doctor Hoffe said, smiling.

Molly fidgeted nervously as she sat on the opposite side of the desk. "Thank you."

Doctor Hoffe was a poised, professional yet gentle-looking lady in her fifties, and Molly felt slightly childish compared to such a refined woman. The young pathologist promised herself she would try and be more like her. Doctor Paten would occasionally chip in, with some anecdote praising his protegé's dedication over the years, and each time Molly would be surprised. She had done all those things without giving it much thought, usually because of Sherlock, and they had seemed natural at the time, but now they were being brought up as badges of valour! Who would have thought...

"Tell me, Doctor Hooper, how long have you been working as a forensic paAAAAH!" Doctor Hoffe cried out in shock, looking past the pathologist.

Molly turned around to see Sherlock, looming menacingly behind the glass door of the office. He walked in.

"Here you are. That idiot Paten sent me is hopeless. Come, we need to look at the new corpse! It's great!"

"Mr. Holmes, I presume." Doctor Hoffe had composed herself and was now standing, hand outstretched. She let it fall when Sherlock ignored it and focused only on the young pathologist.

"Come on, Molly."

"I'm in the middle of a meeting, Sherlock."

"Mr. Holmes, how do you find working with Doctor Hooper?" Doctor Hoffe asked. Sherlock's icy gaze fell on the lady, scanning every piece of information. He then glanced at the table, Molly's body language and Doctor Paten. A moment later he looked at the stranger.  
"This is a job interview." He stated flatly.

"Not quite, we're just having an informal chat." Doctor Hoffe replied calmly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"She's terrible. She's rubbish. I can't stand her. She is lazy, clumsy, unprofessional and can't do her job in any way, shape, or form. Now come on." He said as he grabbed her wrist to pull her back into the morgue.

"No!" Molly cried. She looked at Sherlock coldly, stung by his words. "I am in the middle of a meeting, Sherlock. Tom is filling in for me so you can go to him if you need any assistance. I will come when I have finished."

Sherlock stood very still, looking at her, his expression unreadable. Molly met his gaze and did not back down.

"See?" He finally said, pointing at her. "Hopeless." Sherlock then stormed off.

Doctor Hoffe cleared her thoat before sitting down again. She looked at Molly, who now had her eyes fixed on her hands in her lap, downcast.

"Doctor Hooper, could I ask if you would be available for a proper interview in two weeks? I would need you to come to Manchester for a couple of days so you could see your new working space."

Molly looked up in shock. After everything Sherlock said? Doctor Amélie Hoffe explained.  
"Mr Holmes obviously values your work, or he would not have come to get you, and he wants you to stay or he would not have tried to sabotage our little meeting." She winked "He just thought I was more stupid than I am." Doctor Hoffe chuckled good-humouredly.

"Now, how about we go have lunch?"

"Excellent idea!" Doctor Paten bellowed enthusiastically.

Molly took a deep breath and nodded, blushing as the realisation hit her. She had stood up to him! She looked him in the eye and _she stood up to him!_

* * *

Sherlock walked into the lab, looked around and finally stared icily at Tom, who took 2 steps back.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea." John stated calmly, texting on his phone.

"You could have come, too."

"Oh don't try and drag me into this one." Sherlock glared at John, who looked up and met his gaze, serenely unfased and smiling challengingly.

After a moment, Sherlock turned his eyes on Tom. "Very well, Roger, get the new Jane Doe."

"I'm Tom…" he started, then looked at Sherlock and closed his mouth.

He went to get the corpse.

The three men soon stood looking over the body in silence. Tom felt something was wrong and couldn't resist asking "What is it?"

John, very quietly, replied "It's the Duke's mistress."

"Peter, go get me a cup of coffee, please." Sherlock muttered as his eyes scanned the cadaver.

"Another head trauma." John commented, examining the body.

"I'm Tom." Tom said, but he received no reply. Deciding to make a point and challenge the freak, Tom stood still, head high, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge him and call him by name before asking, politely, for a coffee... Which then Tom would refuse to do because it's not in his job description…

Sherlock looked up from the corpse and Tom's brown eyes met his steel ones.

Tom went to make the coffee.

He looked around for a mug and saw a little brown one by the sink. Tom picked it up on his way to the coffee machine.

"Put that down." Sherlock barked curtly.

Tom turned around, caught his breath and took a step back as Sherlock was mere inches from him, towering over the fairly rattled young man. "That's Molly's mug." He took the mug from Tom's unresisting fingers and carefully placed it in its original spot by the sink. Without taking his eyes off it he spoke "Now go get me that coffee, Geoffrey."

Once Tom walked out of the door, John turned to Sherlock who had gone back to examining the corpse. "You know his name is Tom, you're calling him the wrong name on purpose, aren't you?" His friend didn't say anything, eyes glued on the dead mistress's body. John smiled slightly.

"I thought you said that was _your_ mug."

Sherlock did not reply.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

After lunch, Molly took a deep breath and tentatively opened the door to the morgue. It was hard for her to tell if she felt disappointment or relief when she saw Sherlock wasn't there.

Tom was just tidying up. He jumped when the door opened and looked up nervously. When he saw it was her he steadied himself, walked over to her and said "Get someone else to cover you next time." before escaping from the room.

Molly got back to work, but she was finding it hard to concentrate. During lunch, doctor Hoffe had received a phone call. "It seems" she had then said "That my appointment for Friday has been cancelled. Since my schedule has cleared, and I know the Dean is free, would you be willing to come to Manchester tomorrow afternoon for that interview?" Before she knew it, Molly had agreed! She took deep breaths to calm her nerves and typed at the computer looking for flights. She would stay until Sunday so Molly would be able to look around and get a feel of the city. The best flight would have her leaving tomorrow right after work, so she would have to pack tonight and bring her suitcase to the hospital.

There was something so exciting about packing for a place she'd never been to: she didn't know anyone in Manchester, it was a chance for a wholly new life! She began thinking about buying a new outfit and dying her hair, changing her image: goodbye shy, timid wallflower! Goodbye sweet, meek little doormat! Goodbye Mousey Molly!

_Goodbye_ _Sherlock_.

For a moment Molly felt a small ache in her chest. The truth was she liked herself as she was, mostly. Sure, she was painfully awkward at times, but that was ok, wasn't it? Changing herself for Manchester wasn't going to make leaving Barts, or Sherlock, any easier. She nodded to herself, smiling slightly. Molly would be true to herself: leaving London wasn't about a new life or a new image, it was about running away from him… It was a matter of survival.

Picking up her brown mug, Molly went to make herself some coffee.

Whatever the reason for leaving, whatever she would find in her future, she hoped she would be happy.

* * *

John and his roommate walked into a gym, where Lestrade was waiting for them after the text he'd sent.

"We've found the volley-ball John Doe: his name was James Brook. He was the first in the showers, his friends were all still in the court, so nobody who played with him saw him leave. We think he was killed and removed before any of the other players made it back to the showers." The DI said as he walked to the two men. "Good afternoon, John." He added as Sherlock stormed past them to the changing rooms.

"Hello." John smiled back ruefully

"It seems your estimated time of death was just a little bit off. The game ended 2 hours before you thought." Lestrade added as they walked into the gym together.

"Oh. Well, nobody's perfect." John muttered, surprised, before going into the changing rooms, where his roommate was in the middle of sniffing the lockers, much to the doctor's distaste.

"Where are the man's clothes?" Sherlock muttered.

"Sorry?" One of Lestrade's men asked.

"Where are the clothes? His things? Where did you take them?" The consulting detective barked.

"We…We didn't find anything…" The fellow replied. "We assume it was all stolen."

Sherlock glared at the man. "You're all so obtuse." He finally confirmed disdainfully before striding past him to the beach-volley area.

"What's his problem?" The agent muttered to Lestrade and John. The doctor gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, it's normal. You're new. You'll get used to it." He then walked to the sandy volley court.

The truth was it wasn't normal, not to those who knew him well enough.

"Sherlock, " his friend asked cautiously "Is everything…is everything quite all right?"

The consulting detective, crouching on the sand, turned his gaze to John. "Why would it not be? Is something wrong, John?"

Sherlock had been in a foul mood since Barts. He had paced the morgue restlessly ranting about mankind's asinine little minds, denigrated Tom mercilessly and shouted out of the window to inform a passer-by that, by the look of his coat, her husband was cheating on her. This was all typical Sherlock behavior when not stimulated or given a chance to exercise his mind, however it was highly unusual in the middle of a case!

"Just asking." John shrugged, casually. "Changing the subject entirely, did you find out what Molly was doing?"

Sherlock was very still for a moment, then something seemed to snap and he picked up a handful of sand, walked purposefully to John and rubbed it on his roommate's cheek.

"What was that for?" John cried, stepping away as he brought his hands to his face to brush away the sand.

"Is there any sand on your cheek?"

"Actually…there isn't!" The doctor replied in surprise "None at all!"

"This is the wrong sand." Sherlock nodded.

"What do you mean, 'the wrong sand'?"

Sherlock groaned loudly "This beach volley sand is the kind they used at the Olympics: it is specially designed not to stick to the athletes' skin as they play. Think, John, _think_!"

The doctor blinked in concentration as he looked to the floor, then the penny dropped. "We found sand all over James Brook's body! He was taking a shower to remove it, I remember."

Sherlock nodded "He did play beach volley, but then he went somewhere else, somewhere where he got covered with the sand we found on his corpse."

"But that sand," John continued "Was the same as on the golf course where the duchess was killed…"

Sherlock ran to the exit, John instinctively followed. "Where are we going?"

"Golf club's changing rooms, that's where James Brook was murdered!"

John couldn't help but confirm to himself that something was amiss. Usually at this point the consulting detective would be cheerfully carrying on, taking the case with something akin to glee, however this time there was an intensity he didn't recognise. Sherlock seemed determined to focus on the mystery, but not for the puzzle itself so much as a means of avoiding something. John believed he knew what was going on, but he also knew better than to interfere directly.

"Things change, Sherlock." He muttered quietly as they ran. If Sherlock heard him he did not respond, his black coat whipping in the air behind him, his jaw clenched.


	5. Chapter 5

"Tickets, money, ID.

Tickets, money, ID." Molly kept repeating to herself, checking her bag over and over again. "Tickets, mon….TOOTHBRUSH!" She cried out and added the forgotten item. Finally satisfied, Molly closed her small suitcase and pulled it to the door.

"Toby!" She called. Her cat looked up at her from the carpet. "I'll be away for a couple of days, Alice will pop by to feed you, ok?" Toby rolled over on the carpet and went back to sleep. "I'll miss you too. Bye!" She added before walking out."Talking to myself and to my cat, I'm turning into a crazy spinster cat-lady." She shook her head as she locked the door and went to work.

* * *

"Of course if there is anything I can do to help you find my wife's killer…" The duke said as he ushered Lestrade, Sherlock and John into the golf club. "…And poor Jennifer, of course." He added as an afterthought.

"We have reason to believe a man was also killed on the premises, your Grace." Lestrade said while Sherlock's eyes roamed the Golf Club entrance. "A man called James Brook. Do you know him?"

The Duke's brow furrowed. "The name does ring a bell… I don't spend nearly enough time in the Golf club, that was Odette's field. Harold!" The widower called and a tall, strapping youth in his twenties entered the room. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my son Harold. He has taken the reins of the golf club and has been leading it for over a year now. He is a fair administrator, it's his only talent." The father added almost apologetically. John noticed the son clench his fists. "Harold, do you know anyone called James Brook?"

He young man nodded "He only joined the club about 2 months ago. His handicap is risible."

"Mark your words, Harold, the man was killed." The father chastised him.

"Where were you 2 nights ago, young man?" Lestrade asked "Did you see him?"

"That's when my mother was murdered." Harold exclaimed, glancing at the Duke. The youth steadied himself before replying. "I was here all day, I am usually the last one out as I lock up. I believe I saw him when he arrived but I didn't notice him leaving, the club was empty when I left…"

The showers, where Sherlock believed the murder had taken place, were spotless. As it was a prestigious club it was frequently cleaned thoroughly. Finding any blood traces after so much time was hopeless.

"If he was showering here, maybe his clothes are still in the lockers?" John tried to calm Sherlock, who seemed to have lost some of his focus. Since yesterday his mood had not improved, and now the doctor believed it was getting in the way of his friend's concentration. Sherlock merely nodded, jaw tightly clenched.

They went to the changing rooms to see if they could find Brook's belongings. The roommates opened the lockers but each and every time Sherlock would know they had nothing of the victim's. "Nothing!" He cried, throwing a robe against the wall. "Nothing! Not a single thing!" They had nothing to confirm the murder of James Brook took place in the showers of the changing room. The consulting detective paced the room, sat down, stood up again, paced some more, lay down on the bench, stood up, lay down on the floor, paced, leaned against the wall… John stood by the door, arms crossed, brow furrowed. It was clear Sherlock was having trouble concentrating. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Maybe if we talk about it…"

"Get out, you're distracting me." His roommate glared at Lestrade and the Duke. "Go away and talk about something you ordinary people talk about, just leave me alone!" The DI raised his brow at John, who shook his head slightly, and walked out with the bemused widower and his son.

"Get out." The consulting detective muttered, his back turned to John, who sighed slightly. "You can do this, Sherlock." Before walking out and giving his friend some space.

"What's going on? He seems…Off." Lestrade whispered to the doctor as soon as he closed the door.

" I am not sure but I have a pretty good idea…Let's say Sherlock doesn't take change well, but it seems a big one might be on the horizon and he doesn't know how to cope." John explained as best he could. He then pulled out his phone.

Now that there was more than one door shut between him and Sherlock, he hoped to reach his friend through the ether.

_When we're done here, talk to Molly._

_J_

As expected he did not receive a reply, but a few minutes later Sherlock emerged. "When are the dust bins emptied?" He asked.

"Mondays and Thursdays." The Duke replied "Why?" Sherlock didn't bother to respond as he went charging off to rummage in the rubbish. John dreaded the idea of being dragged into piles of repugnant black bags, but he followed suit.

"It's so simple." Sherlock muttered as he opened bag after bag. "The killer tried to hide his tracks, he would never have left the victim's belongings lying around, he had to throw them away. But he was counting too much on the Club's efficiency to do his work thoroughly. Believing he had removed all signs of violence, he just threw the belongings in the rubbish thinking it would be all thrown away before anyone identified this as where the murder took place. He did not expect to have a genius on the case." Sherlock concluded, pulling out a gym bag with flair; John noticed Sherlock plucking something from it and concealing it before handing the bag to Lestrade. Inside were James Brook's Volleyball clothes, his wallet and ID.

Lestrade immediately made some phone calls. Since they had serious proof, the club would be shut down for further investigation. "Now we know Brook was killed here, we need to find where the duchess was murdered." He said, once finished his call to NSY.

"If there is anything I can do, I would be happy to help." The duke said earnestly.

Sherlock ignored him, walking out the French windows.

"We need to have a look at the golf course, your Grace." John explained sheepishly.

"Of course. Harold, wait here to welcome the agents when they arrive. Let nothing impede courteous conduct." The duke instructed his son before walking out with Lestrade.

The four men walked along the courses, one by one, until Sherlock noticed something and ran to a sand obstacle that was partially concealed by some trees.

"This is the place." He nodded to John once they had caught up with him. "She was killed here. Do you see it?"

John looked around and finally noticed what had caught Sherlock's eye: a tree was very close to the bunker, and it seemed like some of its bark had been scraped off with something. "Why would anyone do that?" He muttered. Sherlock moved in closer, extended his hand to John who instinctively gave him his pocket knife, and dug into a part of the bark that seemed to have been overlooked by the killer: within the brown folds was some… "Blood." John muttered.

"Odette? Odette was killed in a bunker?" The duke asked in disbelief "But I thought she was killed outside, as she was getting to the car…"

Lestrade shook his head "The body was moved."

"She was still wearing her golf shoes. She had a special pair she only wore to go golfing, correct?" John added. The duke silently nodded, confirming Sherlock's deduction. Her handbag had been stolen but now it was likely to be a ruse to disguise this murder as a mugging gone wrong, rather than a murder gone well.

"I was with Jennifer that night…"The widower shook his head. "Now they're both dead."

Unaffected by the Duke's emotions, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "From the distance of the tree and the scraping patterns, it's obvious the murder took place right on the sand. The strong blow caused blood to splatter on to the tree. The killer removed the soiled sand and tried to scrape away the blood from the bark to hide his tracks." As he spoke he placed the blood in a small plastic bag to be analysed later.

"Uhm…Sherlock?" John called. He had walked behind a bush next to the bunker and had found something of interest. Using a glove, the Doctor carefully removed from under the leaves…A used condom.

"It seems like there's more than golf going on here."

The consulting detective and the doctor left Lestrade with the gym bag and the condom at the Golf Club when NSY arrived. Sherlock was satisfied they would not need those items.

"The condom belongs to James Brook and the Duchess." He explained to John. "The DNA test will prove it."

"What did you take from the bag?" The roommate inquired.

"Something I need to have a look at." Sherlock muttered.

"Well, where are we headed now?" The doctor asked.

"The hospital." Sherlock didn't look at him.

John coughed. Then he coughed again. Then again, louder and louder.  
"What's wrong?" Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly.

"I think I caught a bug or something." John spluttered. "If you have me opening rubbish bags you're bound to put my health at risk." He quipped.

"Do you require water?" Sherlock missed the bait.

"No, I…*cough* I think I'll just go home *cough* for a little rest." The doctor replied.

His friend glanced at him, clearly unconvinced. John Coughed again, lamely, and Sherlock turned his coat collar up and looked ahead, silently.

"So…*cough*…I'll see you later."

Sherlock did not reply, and John happily headed home for a warm shower and a nice hot cup of tea.

* * *

It was nearly lunch time, Molly looked nervously at her watch. Just a couple of hours and she would be leaving for the airport.

"Molly. " She jumped when she heard his voice. She turned around to see him standing at the door, alone. "Oh, Sherlock, hi." She fumbled. "What's up? How's the case going?"

"I need to examine these two hairs I found." He said, as he strode towards Molly, looming over her small frame like a cathedral over a country cottage.

"Oh...Ok." She fumbled, taking a couple of steps back and looking away. His steely eyes seemed to bore into her and she didn't have the strength to sustain his gaze . All the fortitude she had at the interview was stolen from her now, alone, with him standing so close to her.

Sherlock studied her. Molly was wearing flats, no hairpins, no jewelry. He could tell that under the lab coat she was wearing a dress. No metal, shoes that were easy to take off, comfortable clothes: the typical attire of practical people who were about to board a plane.

He finally released her from his gaze and looked around. Sure enough, he spotted a small suitcase poking out from under a table. Had she been trying to hide it?

"The hairs." Molly said.

"Pardon?" He turned back to her.

"The hairs." She prompted. "The ones you wanted to look at?"

The next few minutes took place in complete silence. Molly shifted awkwardly as Sherlock examined the clue he had found, under the microscope. After a while he moved back to allow her to look at the hairs herself, in order to compare them and draw her own conclusion.

"Cat hairs. Belonging to the same cat." She finally stated. She looked up from the lens and her heart skipped a beat. Sherlock was looking intently at her, his expression unreadable.

"S..Stop that." She finally said. He was acting so _weird_.

"Molly, I need to ask you something." He began, never taking his eyes off her.

"What do you need?" Molly asked earnestly. He might be horrible to her, but she truly believed in his work and wanted to help.

"Molly, are you unhappy in this hospital?"

She started in surprise, then simply shook her head. She did not expect that question. "No, I am quite content here…"

"Are you unsatisfied with your work?"

"No! I love what I do! Sherlock, Why are you asking m…"

"Why are you going for a job interview at ahospital in another city?"

Molly froze.

_He knows. Oh my God, he knows. _

_Well, of course he does, he's _Sherlock_! _

She had always understood that he would eventually find out. She had agonized over telling him herself, or simply leaving and letting him know about it once she was gone. The truth was she had been terrified of telling him because she couldn't handle him not caring at all about her departure; She thought it would be easier to just go and not see him continue with things, business as usual, without even noticing she wasn't there anymore. It would have been less humiliating.

But now Sherlock was looking at her, expecting answers she was afraid to give.


	6. Chapter 6

"Molly, are you dissatisfied with your pay?" Sherlock continued to fire questions at her. At 10 am, with 2 hours left to go before leaving the hospital, here she was trying to avoid telling a genius he was the very reason she was running away. Couldn't he have come after lunch? Seriously?

"No, I am paid fairly well. I don't get overtime but it's not…"

"Have you talked with the Dean about getting compensation for your extra hours? Maybe he would agree to…"

"It's not about overtime, Sherlock I…"

"Are you being mistreated? Is anyone being unkind to you?" Molly looked at him and hesitated.

"Is it Tom? Because if that little nitwit has been tr…"

"Leave Tom alone, nobody at the hospital has been horrid…"

"Why do you want to leave, Molly?" Sherlock asked again, his icy gaze boring into the young pathologist.

" I…I don't really, it's just…"

"What is the new hospital offering you?"

"Well, the position is Head of Pathology." Molly couldn't hide her pride in that affirmation. " It's a huge deal, Sherl…"

"Head of Pathology? Well, I'm sure they have that title here! Who's head of Pathology at Barts? I can just call Mycroft and…"

"No! I don't want anyone fired on my behalf."

"I'm sure Mycroft could find them a position elsewhere, maybe at the hospital you're…"

"It's not the hospital, Sherlock, it's YOU!" Molly finally cried out. "You're the reason I'm leaving for Mancheter!"

Sherlock froze, then something barely perceptible seemed to change in his eyes, something so small Molly thought she's imagined it.  
"What have I done? Is it about Christmas? Because I did apologise and…"

"No, it's not about that." She felt her cheeks burn with fresh mortification. "But ever since Christmas, if not before, you've known about my feelings. I would have hoped for some small ounce of tact since then, but every time you come here you ignore me or humiliate me, overlook or criticise me, or even worse: you flirt with me to get what you want…And that is _my_ mug!" She added, hotly.

"You use me, Sherlock, you manipulate me like a puppet, you take what you wish and you break my heart, over and over again. " Molly was standing, her voice rising as all the words she had pent up in her heart for so long escaped in an outpour of emotion.

"Can you imagine what it feels like? Admiring someone that barely knows you exist? I understand you're a genius and I'll never be worth much in your eyes because I'm 'ordinary', but I still don't deserve this…It hurts too much." She could feel her strength diminish, as each fervent word left her feeling more raw and exposed.

"Everyday I am here, I hope and dread you'll come. All I want to do is see you and help you, but you look right past and don't see me...And I so badly want to be seen."

Spent and bare, she hugged herself.

"And…and I just can't take it anymore. I just can't." She whispered brokenly, her eyes downcast as tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

Finally Molly gathered the courage to look up.

Sherlock hadn't moved at all, frozen since she had told him the truth. Molly knew he had been watching her, but as soon as she raised her eyes he turned his own away and did not meet her gaze. For what seemed like ages they stayed like that, in silence. Then, suddenly, Sherlock walked to the door.

Just before leaving he stopped, his back to her, and said:

"I know it's your mug."

Then he was gone.

Molly looked at the empty space where Sherlock once was, then sank to the floor, gasping and covering her face as she felt herself drown in her tears, sobbing softly in a cold, empty room.

* * *

"Don't let anyone in or anything out." Lestrade instructed the agents. "It seems the murder weapon might be a golf club. We need to gather them all and check for traces of blood." He suddenly heard a familiar beep. It was a text message.

_Search duke's daughter's house._

_SH_

After a few moments he got another one.

_Golf club is there. _

_SH._

A second later, he received a third.

_Now._

_SH_

Lestrade made the call, stressing the urgency of the situation, and NSY went to search the daughter's home for the murder weapon. Just over half an hour later he got confirmation: a golf club with traces of blood was found, in the rubbish bag the duke's daughter was dragging out of the house when the officers arrived.

Lestrade went to the Duke and his son.

"I am sorry to inform you we have found the possible murder weapon, at your daughter's home. She is a suspect for the murders of James Brook and Odette Renard."

The duke put his hand to his head. "Marie? My little, sweet Marie? I need a drink…" Then something hit him. "What about Jennifer?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Your daughter was already back at Oxford when Miss Krane was killed, the murderer must be someone else."

"That is incorrect." Lestrade turned to see Sherlock sauntering into the room.

"Lestrade, there is only one killer, and he is standing right there." Sherlock's eyes fixed on the murderer. The Duke froze, but Harold made a run for it.

"Stop him!" Lestrade cried, and two officers blocked the duke's son.

"What's going on?" The father asked, pained. "Harold? Harold what did you _do_?"

"Your son." Sherlock explained "As you know, considering the deprecating tones you use with him, is under financial duress. Although you gave him a job at the club, the money is not covering his debts, which you refused to pay as it would be enabling the lifestyle you disapprove of." Sherlock would usually walk around the room as he delivered his final deductions, but this time he stood, stonily speaking without flair or feeling.

"On the evening of the murder, Harold was left alone to tend to the club, when he noticed someone in the course: your wife was having an affair with James Brook and Harold caught them in the act. I am sure the DNA tests will confirm that they were the two who used the condom found on the site. It was during their consummation that they got sand on their bodies. After James left, Harold tried to blackmail his mother, who refused. In a fit of rage he hit her with her own golf club. You will see that, in the duchess' equipment, her wedge is missing."

Lestrade summoned an agent and instructed him to locate and inspect the duchess' clubs. Sherlock resumed his explanation, although Lestrade noticed it lacked the usual enjoyment the consulting detective usually displayed.

"Harold panicked and tried to remove all proof. He followed James to the showers, knowing Mr. Brook was a dangerous witness, and disposed of him. The hairs from your daughter's cat on both Brook's gym bag and on the body of Miss Krane, your mistress, helped confirm that he was the killer. "

"What has the cat hair got to do with it?" Harold spat.

"Your sister stayed with you and your father for a few days, leaving distinct white hairs on most of your clothes. The duke has a rock-solid alibi for all murders, having been sighted elsewhere at the time, and your sister was in Oxford when your father's mistress was killed. And yet the same white hairs were found on all the victims, because they came from your coat."

"What is my Marie's involvement in this?" The duke pleaded.

"When Harold had murdered his mother's lover, he called your daughter so she could take the club to Oxford and hide the evidence. She did it to help her brother. She couldn't bring herself to throw away something belonging to her mother, so she kept the wedge, until Harold sent her a message the moment Lestrade called NSY. A message I am sure is still on his phone and that will confirm him as the killer."

"But why kill Miss Krane? What is the motive?" Lestrade wondered.

"Harold had originally intended to keep Mr. Brook's gym bag in his locker until Friday, so it would be thrown away with the rubbish, however it was a mistake of his. Miss Krane was unfortunate enough to find it and identify the owner. She needed to be disposed of."

"Harold? Harold is this true?" The duke turned to his son.

"You should have just given me the money, Dad." His son shook his head. "It's really all your fault, you mean stingy hypocrite with your holier-than-thou attitude." He added spitefully as he was taken away. The Duke sighed, brokenhearted. "I just wanted to teach you responsibilities. It wasn't supposed to end this way…" He followed the agofficers they left the room. Lestrade and Sherlock were left alone in the room.

"Well, another mystery solved!" The DI cried, pleased, turning to the consulting detective with a smile. The grin died on his lips as he saw Sherlock's face.

The genius would usually nod in satisfaction and sometimes actually smile. At least he would show some form of contentment when the puzzle was solved, but there was no hint of pleasure in the consulting detective's expression. Without saying a word, he strode purposefully out, leaving behind a slightly bemused Detective Inspector.

If Lestrade hadn't known him better he might have thought he saw sadness, or remorse, in Sherlock's eyes.

* * *

11 am.

After what felt like ages, Molly had finally stopped crying, pulled herself together and finished the last few things she needed to do. Now she had a whole hour before she could leave for the airport. Molly regretted saying what she did…To be fair, it wasn't really what she said so much as how she said it. But stil...

He couldn't help it, really. He didn't mean to hurt her; it wasn't his fault if he didn't care. Molly didn't like to leave on a sour note, and she wanted to make him understand that she didn't blame him, but how could she do that, now that he was gone? After thinking about it for a moment, she had an idea. She pulled out the brown mug and put it back by the sink, with a little note:

_For_ _Sherlock_

_From Molly._

She was very careful to avoid writing sentimental things like 'love Molly' or 'xxx'; He would understand, hopefully.

She looked at the watch. 45 minutes to go…

Molly felt butterflies in her stomach, she was getting more and more nervous as the minutes slipped by. Now it was worse because she didn't have anything left to do…She decided to take a walk around the hospital, to pass the time. She offered to help with some paperwork and had a nice chat with a friendly old man in the geriatrics ward.

At 11:45 she headed back to the lab so she could get her things and pop into the bathroom to refresh her make-up before the flight. Molly opened the door and pulled out her suitcase from under the table. As she stood up straight, her eyes fell to the sink. Then she realised there was no little brown mug.

"Don't go."

Molly turned around to see Sherlock standing by the door, her mug in his hands.

"I made you coffee."

"Oh. Uhm..Thanks." She stammered, gingerly taking the drink from his fingers, blushing slightly when their hands touched. "What.. What did you say before you mentioned the coffee?" She dared ask.

Sherlock turned and walked to the window. "You were going to leave me the mug… I don't want it."

"Oh." She replied, stung. "Well, then you don't have to take it. It's not like I'm forcing you to." Not that she could force Sherlock to do anything against his will, she mused.

"The reason I don't want it," he continued, disregarding her interruption. "Is because that's the mug _you_ bring me coffee in. Whenever I need some, even when I don't know I do, there you are with a fresh batch. And even though your coffee is always too sweet and not strong enough, I know it's your mug, and you care about it, so I want that coffee…But if you're not bringing it to me then there is no point in that mug."

He shook his head and turned to her.

"Molly, don't go. That's my Molly mug, it's meaningless without Molly…"

"Sherlock I can't just stay because you want me to bring you coffee." Molly attempted a laugh. His words were confusing her, she felt like he was talking in riddles and puzzles, in codes which she couldn't crack.

"It's not just the coffee." Sherlock almost groaned in frustration. She wasn't getting it. He moved to stand in front of her.

"Molly, you know me. Better than most, you know me. I am socially inept and uninterested. There are few people whom I trust, and fewer whom I care about, fewer still that I need." For a brief moment he brought his hands to hers, and she felt the warmth of his finger resting against her skin. Then he let his hands fall.

"It's not just the coffee, Molly:

every time I need your help, you're there to do whatever you can to assist me;

If I am unsure in the face of an obstacle, you look at me with such admiration and trust, as if no challenge were to great for me, that I believe you and it makes me feel like I could solve any mystery in the world;

whenever my thoughts are too much for me to handle, I cannot silence my mind, and I feel like my brain will explode… there you are, with a cup of coffee and a smile, and...And I can cope with it all."

Molly looked up at him, stunned. She parted her lips to reply, but she was speechless. All she could do was gaze up at him, probably looking rather silly, with her mouth open.

"I might never be able to give you what you need, Molly. I'll never be the type of man to buy you flowers, willingly go to meet your friends or make big romantic gestures. I have never cared much for the affairs of the heart. I think love is a weakness. I don't even believe I know what love truly is... All I know is that I need you, and doesn't that mean something?"

Molly finally found enough of her voice to whisper: "Could it…Could it ever become anything more than need, Sherlock?"

He hesitated, looking away "I don't know." The genius finally answered truthfully. "It's too great a mystery for me." Sherlock lowered his head.

"I don't think I can cope without you, but I don't want you to be sad, so…If you think Manchester can give you what I cannot, and make you happy, then you should go. It would be the right decision. You'd be a fool to stay."

He looked at her, and where usually Molly saw unreadable ice she now found limpid, cool waters.

"All I can say, Molly, is…Don't go. Please."

And so Molly stood on the brink of the precipice. She was walking a tightrope, destined to fall but only allowed to choose which side.

She found herself torn, lacerated in a war fought by the slim promise of romance and the certainty of closure;

the man she loved now and the chance of love with another;

the hopeful heart and the sensible mind;

the battle and the retreat;

the coffee cup and the suitcase.

.

* * *

Author's note:

I hope you enjoyed this, please review and tell me what you think.

Thanks for reading my fic!

Feralandfree


End file.
